The Things We Carry With Us
by define-serenity
Summary: [Pacific Rim AU] When he's eleven, monsters cost him everything. At eighteen Blaine joins the Jaeger program, determined to become a pilot. But that means entering the Drift with a stranger. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**warnings:** language, explicit sex, mention of minor character death(s)

**author's notes:** Pacific Rim!AU because i have become completely obsessed with the movie. you don't have to watch the movie to understand the plot, a lot of in-universe things are explained, but it's a great movie and i will recommend it to every sci-fi fan out there! dedicated to the wonderful and talented **zephyrianboom** who drew beautiful art work with Sebastian and Blaine as Jaeger pilots. special thanks to Nikki (**xsaturated**) for the quick beta-read!

* * *

**The Things We Carry With Us;;**

* * *

**the Drift **- two individuals mind melding through memories with a giant machine called a Jaeger;

the deeper the bond, the better you fight.

* * *

The memories are scattered and fragile, like one of those homemade photo mobiles that hang from the ceiling or in a window and look like they could fall apart at any moment, thin silver frames hanging from loose delicate strings, spinning at the slightest gust of air.

It's those same memories that keep him up at night, his conscious mind afraid to drift into nightmare, his dreams making him break out in cold sweats and he wakes with an unuttered scream at the back of his throat, holding his hand out for someone who isn't there. Not anymore.

.

He watches _Godzilla_ with his brother when he's barely five years old on an old VHS tape bought from a going-out-of-business video store in town. He sits pressed against Cooper's side, legs pulled up to his chest, prepared to bury his face in his brother's shoulder whenever the giant reptile rises up from the water, never losing sight of its yellow eyes.

Even at that young age he understands it's a movie, it's fiction. But it feels real to him.

It feels so real that his parents never allow Cooper to babysit again.

.

When he's eleven the monsters become real.

He can't believe it at first; the entire city turns upside down and there are explosions, F-16s flying overhead as his father hurriedly tries to turn the car. His mother screams and Cooper takes out his camera phone and the first thing he thinks is _terrorists_. It has to be terrorists.

But then the roar of something straight from science-fiction rattles down the pavement and he clasps his hands over his ears in an effort to shut it out.

His father urges them out of the car because they're not moving and then everyone's screaming, his father for his mom to calm down, his brother to give him his hand and begs him not to let go, and his mother just cries. She cries and screams and that scares him more than anything else ever could.

They get swallowed up by a raging crowd, a haphazard heap of bodies tripping over its own feet and it isn't until the ground–_it doesn't just shake_, it moves a good inch beneath their feet before coming back up and almost everyone topples over. The ground moves again, a quiet gasp reverberating throughout.

And then he sees the monster. Not yellow eyes, he can't see those, but it's gigantic and terrifying and _the noise_, it cuts down through nerve and bone marrow. Cooper's hand grips so tight around his it hurts, but the panic that seizes him is stronger–his mouth goes dry and tears sting his eyes. This is real. The monster's real, the fighter jets are real, the destruction _is_ _real_.

A woman screams. A man screams. Children start crying.

Everyone scrambles up in an unorganized mess.

He loses hold of his brother's hand.

"Cooper!" he screams and turns.

But Cooper's gone.

His mother's gone.

His father's gone.

.

He shoots up in bed silently screaming, one hand held out clawing at the darkness. But there's only a room with five other beds, his and the other foster children's. No Cooper. No mom. No dad. Not anymore.

.

He gets fostered with the Hudson-Hummels somewhere in Ohio, deeper inland where the monster didn't manage any devastation. The Bay Area got nuked into oblivion, his house reduced to cinders along with everyone and everything he's ever known, and if anyone had asked he would've answered, "Good", because that's how he felt.

_Uninhabitable_.

.

He's still eleven when a second monster attacks Hong Kong.

He catches it on the news around noon, legs pulled up to his chest, chin resting on his knees, his foster brothers fighting for the remote until Carole snatches it away and hands it over–the room falls silent and all eyes turn to him, tears muddying his vision as his nightmares turn flesh on the screen.

It's not a movie.

It's not fiction.

Monsters are real now and the rest of the world has become just as scared as he is.

That night he falls asleep in Carole's arms because he can't stop crying; he feels safe for the first time in months and when he closes his eyes he can almost (but not quite) imagine his life before the monsters.

He wakes up screaming all the same.

.

They find a word for them, the monsters. They call them kaiju.

.

Over the years the world builds monsters of its own. Jaegers, thirty-stories-tall robots created beyond the borders of countries and continents, the human race coming together to fight monsters from another dimension. _Aliens_.

When he tells Carol that one day he'll be a Jaeger pilot, that he'll slay the monsters that destroyed so many lives, she fails to hear him say, "I'll avenge my family." Instead Carole smiles because that's the person she is, and tells him, "Sure, honey, you'll be a hero one day," mistaking his hunger for vengeance with a desire for fame.

.

Carole and Burt Hudson-Hummel have two sons of their own, Finn and Kurt, and they're the only ones in the house somewhat respectful of his trauma. They're a year older than him and they try their best to make him feel at home, even though he never (ever) lets them see him cry.

But Finn protects him from bullies and teaches him how to fight back, gets him into boxing and other martial arts, _makes him stronger_, and brings him home Ranger recruitment flyers he hides inside his pillow casing.

On calm days he'll sit with Kurt and read in silence (he avoids the television as much as he can now), recapturing some sense of normalcy.

Or whatever passes as normal in a world held together by raw hope and the bravery of a few hundred Rangers.

.

A few weeks before his eighteenth birthday the recruiters come to Lima. He sneaks out of the house and he's first in line to take the test–he doesn't know what he'll do should it turn out he's not compatible. Everyone knows that only candidates with Drift compatibility end up in the pilot program–the others because strike troopers or jumphawks.

When the letter comes Carole cries and even Burt struggles, Finn gives him a pat on the back and Kurt hugs him tight, as if it's some sort of promise that they'll see each other again, keep in touch, _see you later_.

But he doesn't look back.

Not once.

.

He travels to the Kodiak Island training facility along with thirty other recruits. He feels small compared to the great steel complex constructed not a year before, but its magnitude underlines his will to be here, his _need_ to be here.

This is his destiny.

He receives his dog tags and uniform and proceeds to his quarters, a colorless room with a bed and a small desk, a sink in the corner and a flat screen mounted to the wall.

He watches the other recruits hang up pictures of their friends and family, pets even, while all he has is one thumbed family photo that had been in his wallet during the attack–he keeps it in a special journal where he penned down all the happy memories he's afraid of losing.

He reads it at night when he can't sleep, tracing his fingers over the words as he tries to conjure the faces of his parents and his brother, turning inanimate over time.

.

He meets Sam on his third day.

"So, what's your superpower?" a voice sounds behind him.

He turns and stands faced with an astonishingly beautiful boy with the fullest lips he's ever seen–in his surprise he loses all propriety and replies with a dull, "What?"

The blond smiles wide and drawls out a smooth, "Hi, neighbor," leaving him to assume his guest occupies one of the quarters down the hall. He holds out a hand. "I'm Sam. Comic book geek. Professional impersonator."

He smiles and shakes Sam's hand. "You're in the science program," he says matter-of-factly, without introducing himself in turn.

Sam points at the thickly framed glasses perched on his nose. "Legally blind, so piloting was out," he says. "I wouldn't want it any other way though," Sam rants. "These things need to be destroyed, but we need to study them too."

He nods, words failing him. He was eight when he knew he liked boys the way his brother mooned over girls–he'd kept it hidden for all the years it didn't matter, and all the years it did he had no one to tell. There were never any boys that drew his focus from the things he wanted, not even Kurt, who'd admitted to having a crush on him but made no big deal when those feelings weren't reciprocated.

But this feels new, the way his reaction catches at the back of his throat and he has trouble swallowing–Sam's ease and openness comes as a breath of fresh air, like a kindness no one had extended until now. As effortless it had been for him to go unnoticed for seven years, it's quite nice to be noticed without trying.

"You're a pilot," Sam says, catching him by surprise again.

He rolls his shoulders and finally finds his voice. "Not yet," he answers.

.

The training program consists of an intense 24-week course that requires any candidate to handle a great deal of stress. They study tactics, basic kaiju science and some engineering, on top of several martial arts techniques, none more important than the Kwoon. All candidates must achieve total and unconscious mastery of the 52 positions of Jaeger Bushido.

After five months, agility tests and brain scans, along with observations made by their instructors, will determine which candidates are matched together in the Kwoon, a series of hand-to-hand fights that are meant to show which recruits will be paired as pilots.

He excels across the board; he knows what he wants and he applies a tunnel vision mentality, even though Sam challenges that more than once–Sam drags him out to bars or game nights, tells him to let loose and have a little fun now and then.

He doesn't have the heart to tell Sam his idea of fun feels empty and meaningless, not worth wasting his time on at all.

.

Two weeks into his training he has to submit to a personality screening, another essential part of the selection process, meant to ascertain his mental state for deployment in the field.

He works himself up in a frenzy, throws up the night before and the morning of, his stomach in knots over the thought that his entire future depends on the observations of a complete stranger, and the realization that he never learned how to talk about what happened seven years ago.

"What are you afraid they'll find?" Sam asks, his concern touching as it is unwelcome–he doesn't want anyone worrying for him here, he left that all behind in his pursuit of revenge.

There's a long pause while he contemplates all the things he could say to Sam, how no one enjoys being psychoanalyzed, that he has bad experiences with psychiatrists, or simply that he's not good at talking about his feelings. None of which are blatant lies.

But instead he answers with the truth, "I have nightmares," he says, the confession unable to ease his breathing. He feels like a dead man walking, because if they take this from him he might as well be dead–there's nothing else out there for him.

Sam reaches out and takes hold of his hand, his thumb running over his knuckles, simple and soothing and for a few nanoseconds it's there, _oxygen_, astoundingly so.

"Most of us do," Sam confesses, his voice heavy with sorrow, and he finds the pain twinned in his own heart. He can't figure out what to say for comfort though–he never learned how to do that either.

So they sit in silence, holding hands, while the clock ticks time away.

.

They never talk about it. Their past isn't a secret, but their pain has become something they play close to the chest, never allowed to show for fear it might spill free completely and it won't be contained again.

So he doesn't tell Sam about his mom, or dad, or Cooper, can't allocate the right words because sometimes pain isn't something you word, it's not something you designate with a limited amount of characters even if they allow for an infinite number of permutations.

He's seen the pictures though, tacked to the wall above Sam's bed, two adults who he assumes are Sam's parents, two younger siblings, a boy and a girl, smiling faces on paper slowly fading.

.

The first time Sam kisses him it's wholly unexpected.

They're down at a bar with some of Sam's friends–Artie, Sugar and Tina, or the Science Squad as they like to call themselves. He's having fun, or whatever passes as fun for him, and even has a slight buzz going from the two beers he's had.

Sam's had one beer and several shots and he shoots off one impersonation after the other. Tina's in stitches and Sugar's gone googly eyed, while Artie chats up another recruit at the next table. He laughs because he forces it–he hasn't watched television in years, let alone any of the movies Sam's referencing, but he cares enough to give Sam the impression he can make him smile.

By the close of the night he ends up alone with Sam, and he tucks in closer and closer, becoming more loose-lipped by the second.

"I really like you, Blaine," he says, remarkably lucid. His cheeks burn hot and he can't decide whether it's Sam's proximity or the alcohol, but Sam scoots closer, pushing languid into his personal space. "I like that you don't care about being friends with the science geeks, and that you hang out with me even when you don't feel like it."

He tries to swallow but fails, unable to decipher the blush creeping up the back of his neck.

In a less scary world he might be able to admit he's attracted to Sam, that he'd like for him to be his boyfriend and they could attempt a happy life together.

But he's not happy.

Sam's not happy.

They're both content to live out the cards fate has dealt them and try to make the most of that. But where Sam manages to stay optimistic, sees a chance of improvement in a world where hope's a rare commodity, he's, well, _stuck_.

In the past. In his nightmares. In his need for revenge.

"You laugh at all my jokes," Sam continues, and he finally grasps some concept of where this could be going. "Even the terrible ones."

Sam leans in. "And you're really cute when you're blushing."

"Sam–" he protests, but Sam's lips push up against his and more than anything, more than lust or attraction or the search for a reason to stay alive, it's curiosity that surges him forward, colliding his lips to Sam's, settling for could-be desire over contentment.

.

He loses his virginity to Sam the night they celebrate Sam's nineteenth birthday. Sam kisses everywhere he can reach and he undergoes everything, twitches and writhes as Sam tests what works for him and what doesn't and it's not like he imagined it would be–he thought the physical intimacy would lend itself to a deeper bond between them, instead he's shocked by how twofold their desires lie.

He wants Sam.

But Sam _needs_ him.

He likes it, he's still human after all, and he whimpers, "Yes," over and over again as his orgasm comes closer, tightens his hold on Sam and basks in his warm breath damp against his neck.

"_Blaine_," Sam repeats over and over again–he closes his eyes and tries to focus on the here and now like he's supposed to and cries his release at the same time Sam does. He feels weak and spent like he could sleep for three days straight, but as Sam later falls asleep with his ear to his heart, he lies awake for hours, sleep unwilling to coax him into unconsciousness.

He threads his fingers through Sam's hair and listens to his breathing, waiting for morning to come.

Their relationship is a compromise, the same way other recruits around them have broken off into miscellaneous pairings.

He knows this.

Sam knows this.

.

His palms are itchy and his hands sweaty, heart frantic against his ribcage. No two minutes ago, Nick, one of his fellow recruits and occasional sparring partner, informed him that Colonel Stryker wants to see him. The entire table had fallen silent, fear palpable, because their superior officer didn't have the reputation of inviting anyone to his office for a friendly chat.

The Colonel wasn't known for his gloves-on approach, rather it was the opposite. Stryker wasn't even his real name, it was a nickname he'd gotten after his tours in Iraq and it was a mystery as to how it had become so commonplace to use it.

He knocks the door three times and enters once he's called in, standing to attention.

"At ease, Anderson," Stryker barely looks up from the file on display on his desk. "Have a seat."

He's not sure where he gets the nerve to say, "I'd rather stand."

Stryker's brow sets stern, and his eyes rest on him for countless of moments while the silence grows heavier. Stryker leans back in his chair, sliding the file he was reading towards him.

He sneaks a peek and his heart drops to his stomach: his psych file.

He locks his hands behind his back and his fingers wring together, worst case scenarios stirring in the pit of his stomach, nerves frayed from the blatant emotional warfare. If his file's the reason he's here then he's definitely in trouble.

Because he can guess what it says.

"I'll be honest with you, Anderson," Stryker says, "I have my doubts about you."

_Psychological scars will destabilize any neural handshake he might enter_.

"You have the focus and the drive," Stryker continues. "But I'm not sure you're emotionally stable enough to pilot one of my Jaegers."

"All due respect, sir," he blurts out, momentarily forgetful of who and what he is, and how he should address a superior officer with the respect he deserves. "I just want a chance to prove myself."

Silence falls again while Stryker sizes him up, and he hates how he can feel tears sting at the corners of his eyes–he should be stronger than this, but he never has been. He still runs scared at the mention of real-life monsters. He just got better at hiding it.

"And you'll get it," Stryker says.

He releases a breath as if it's been knocked right out of him, his heart now stuttering a tuneless rhythm. It's all one big test to see if he'll buckle under the pressure–but he can handle pressure, it's his anxiety he's far more worried about.

"But if you fuck up it's my ass on the line." Stryker points at him, a gesture faintly reminiscent of his past. "So don't fuck up."

"I won't, sir," he says, making the solemn vow to never give Stryker another reason to call him back in here.

He's dismissed and rushes outside, but there's no more oxygen than there was inside. He tries to breathe around the pain, served up fresh by a few choice words, and he wants to scream it out. This was bound to happen sooner or later, he's too self aware to ignore the fact that he hardly sleeps, that when he does sleep he's plagued with nightmares, that when he wakes up it's the ghostly impression of his brother's hand he still reaches out for.

It was stupid to think he'd fool the psych analysts.

"Blaine Anderson."

The voice startles him but its calm is warm and soothing, a cadence to it that's almost playful. He turns to see Sebastian Smythe, though slightly blurred, as he casually leans against the wall right next to Stryker's door, arms crossed over his chest.

He knows Sebastian by name only; he's in the pilot program too and his biggest competition in the simulator, but beyond a few glances during training he can't divine why Sebastian would talk to him now.

"You in trouble too?"

With his present panic as it is he replies with a choked, "No."

"Ah," the sound comes easy and half-amused and somewhere in between Sebastian has come a step closer. "The good old 'don't fuck up' speech then."

Sebastian's eyes are a bright green and _sparkling_, something he wasn't aware eyes could do up until that very moment–those eyes narrow on his face, smile playing around Sebastian's mouth. "You unstable, Anderson?"

"I'm–" he stammers, tries to reach around his panic to formulate an answer that won't make him into an inarticulate fool. If they thought him unstable Stryker would've kicked him off the program, but here he stands, barely breathing, white hot panic cut through nerve and bone marrow.

"Sebastian!" Stryker's strong voice booms behind the door and he sighs relief again, only vaguely curious as to why Stryker calls Sebastian by his first name.

"Piece of advice, killer?" Sebastian says, not in the least bit hurried, and he's equally surprised by the beginning of that sentence as he is by the ending. "Don't let him get to you."

And he would've been touched had Sebastian not added, "He's a mean old man who gets off on telling people what to do."

.

"He's a jerk."

Sam pulls no punches in his opinion of Sebastian, and Artie, Tina and Sugar all nod in agreement.

"Guy's been called to Stryker's office more than everyone here combined," Nick chimes in.

"He also hits on anything with a pulse," Sam adds, tone veering towards jealousy rather than disdain.

Two strong hands land on his shoulders, and his heart jumps so hard he almost jolts out of his seat.

"Evans, I'm wounded," Sebastian's voice sounds above him and he goes absolutely still, regretful of his decision to ask around about Sebastian. "If you're that repulsed by my lifestyle I'd be happy to take Anderson off your hands for a few nights."

Sebastian's squeezes at his shoulders and his skin crawls with it. He's not sure why.

He never thought this would be his life, that high school dynamics would seep into his day-to-day life on an army base of all places, and the last thing he expected was to be noticed by a guy like Sebastian.

In high school he was the quiet kid who read a book in the corner while he ate lunch alone, or hid in the gym so no one could find him. That hasn't changed, he's still that same boy, only he's more relaxed here, surrounded by people who want the same things he wants: defend the world against monsters.

Most of the others seem to understand this. Sebastian doesn't; he flaunts regulations and authority, flits from one hook-up to the other without any regard for the people around him.

Which leads to one conclusion: Sebastian Smythe is not his friend.

"Piss off, Sebastian," Sam sneers.

"What about you, Anderson?" Sebastian whispers low in his ear.

A shudder tiptoes up his spine.

"Or does your boyfriend make the decisions for you?"

He wants to answer but he doesn't, realizing that whatever he says Sebastian will find some way to twist it in his favor. And Sebastian means nothing to him, so why would he encourage him?

Sebastian slinks away after a few more seconds of silence have passed and he relaxes again, even though Sebastian's touch lingers hot beneath his skin.

.

He'll be the first to admit that Sebastian is a sight to behold in the mock-pod simulator. He never comprehended what it meant when Carol said Finn was born to be a teacher, that somehow his skillset lended itself to a profession so perfectly it was a match made in what some might call a heaven.

But every time he sees Sebastian make another kill it dawns on him: Sebastian was born to be a pilot. His movements come lithe and effortless like a dancer's would, he masters his own body and the machine and it makes for a combination that's not only entertaining, but admirable.

His fighting techniques are a different matter: he's unpredictable, improvises at the right moments, surprises most of the instructors by how unforgiving some of his kills are. The main reason Sebastian still ranks number two, however, is his lack of concentration; he's quickly distracted, yet most of the time he's fast enough to make up for those mistakes.

Recently he's the one who gets distracted.

He's studied Sebastian's fighting techniques from the get-go. With their scores so close together there's a good chance they'll be matched together in the Kwoon and he wants to be ready for when that happens. The problem these past few weeks is that he notices things about Sebastian he never has in others, like his long lean built and toned arms, his sharp cheekbones, his easy and toothy smile. The way his hair's all tousled when he removes his helmet. The slight flush in his cheeks.

He's chucked it up to another bout of curiosity rather than interest, he noticed the same things about Sam once they became an item, and he'd never say anything to Sebastian. He would never live it down.

"Looking good, Anderson," Sebastian says as they cross to switch places, his eyes intent on his ass.

"Ready to place second again?" he asks.

"Easy there, killer," Sebastian grins cheekily. "Don't think I didn't see you staring too."

And Sebastian's right, he has been staring, and he's never been more aware of their height difference than in that moment–

But it's Stryker who speaks next, emerging from the shadows where he'd been observing the session, "If you spent as much time on your focus as you did his ass your scores might rival his."

Sebastian's jaw clenches and he licks his teeth. "Yes, sir," he says. "I'll work on that, sir." He turns around and salutes Stryker, making things worse for himself. "Any other words of wisdom you wish to impart, _sir_?"

Stryker lives up to his reputation: "Quit fucking around," he says.

By now the room has gone completely silent, everyone watching with baited breath to see what Sebastian's next move will be, if he can mess up even further.

Sebastian grimaces, and takes a bow, a deep fully-followed-through bow right in front of Stryker.

There's a gasp or two at the sight, and he too has a hard time accepting that what he saw even happened. Sebastian's not his friend and he probably never will be if he doesn't change–and that turns the fact that Sebastian may well be his match in the Kwoon even more frightening. Sebastian's not the kind of guy he wants in his head.

"Anderson, you're up," Stryker orders.

His cheeks burn from second-hand embarrassment, but he tries to shake it off, because the simulator is his favorite part of the training; everything falls away, his pain, his worries, his stress, it all becomes secondary, seeps out of him the moment he dons that driver suit and steps foot in the pod.

He imagines that's what coming home feels like.

He's put the whole ordeal out of his mind until Sebastian's voice, once again, sounds behind him when he's making his way back to his quarters that night.

"Can you believe Stryker today?"

He sighs and turns around, too tired to indulge Sebastian; he has a shoulder leaned up against the wall, body slanted and legs crossed at the ankles, graceful as ever. He wishes he didn't mentally note all these things about Sebastian, because he doesn't understand why he chose to fixate on him. Not only does he have Sam, he's not exactly known for his sparkling conversational skills.

Sebastian shrugs, twirling a toothpick between his fingers. "Thinks he knows me or something."

He studies Sebastian's demeanor, insolence interspersed with ego. "He was right, wasn't he?"

Sebastian grins, "About me checking out your ass, he was."

He takes a deep breath. "You're too easily distracted," he says. "The Drift requires concentration."

Sebastian's eyes pin him down on the spot, his jaw clenches again, and he probably would've defended himself one way or another if it hadn't been for the group of recruits making their way down the hallway. Instead Sebastian shakes his head and smiles, a half-amused huff even though the corners of his mouth are downturned, before he turns on his heels and disappears out of sight.

.

At night he wakes up screaming, his proximity to everything he's worked for bringing back the memories more often than not and it's all a lie; his relationship with Sam, his strong demeanor during the day, the friendships he barely maintains.

He still hides behind that eleven-year old's fear of being swallowed whole by the monster in his dreams.

The bed creaks, a tentative, "Blaine," sounding and a rustle of sheets.

"_Don't_," he snaps, and the room falls painfully silent.

"I just–" Sam starts, but even he's long lost the meaning of a comforting word.

.

He tries to run on as little sleep as possible. Sometimes he waits for Sam to fall asleep and goes for a walk, watches the night crews work on the Jaegers in the bay and dreams of the day he'll step foot in one, experience the Drop outside of a simulator, mind meld with a machine capable of destroying a kaiju.

Other nights, when his brain catches up with the fact that the mind meld will also include an actual person, he heads for the gym, hoping to chase away any demons with his fists.

Tonight, he's not alone.

He hears the distinct rhythm of fists hitting hard leather and he slows down; he comes here to be alone, bathe in the solace an empty room can offer, but he doesn't want to head back to his room and make a poor attempt at sleep.

He rounds the corner and regrets his insistence instantly: across the room he's greeted by the sight of the last person he wants to see right now.

"Can't sleep either, hu, killer?"

He thinks about leaving without a word, but something close to discomfort has settled under his skin; he needs a distraction and he refuses to believe Sebastian Smythe has become synonymous with _uncivilized_. There's no reason the two of them can't co-exist.

And he's not beyond a little give and take. "I'm sorry about what I said."

Sebastian looks up at him and grins. "No, you're not." He winks, adding, "And neither am I," before his eyes travel down to his crotch shamelessly, and he starts packing his things together.

He scoffs. Maybe he was wrong; maybe in Sebastian's case what you saw was what you got–a caricature from a poorly written action movie, the typical bad boy who needed to learn humility the hard way.

But they don't live in a fictional world.

"Why are you here?" he asks, arms crossed over his chest, staring holes in the back of Sebastian's head. Surely he's not the only who's surmised this: _Sebastian doesn__'t want to be here_.

For a moment or two he thinks his question will go unanswered, until Sebastian finishes putting his gear in his bag and walks right up to him.

"Why are you?" Sebastian throws the question right back at him and he's taken aback. He might not open up to anyone, but he thought his purpose here was obvious.

The silence that falls is deafening.

A sly and almost proud smile curls around Sebastian's lips.

"You'll have to get over your reluctance to open up, Anderson," Sebastian says, so close he can see the sweat dripping down his temples. "Soon enough someone will be inside your head and learn all your deep dark secrets."

He licks his lips, feels his eye twitch and the fear Sebastian pokes at with pinpoint precision keeps him firmly rooted where he stands. His eyes find Sebastian's, his hands balled into fists. "What's in my head is none of your damn business," he sneers, well aware that his voice sounds weak.

Sebastian smiles. "Whatever you say, killer."

But Sebastian's careless dismissal sets a fire ablaze in his veins. He can't fathom how Sebastian gets to him like this, why he hates letting him walk with the final say.

"And he's my father," Sebastian adds, straightening his shoulders to stand even taller.

He frowns.

"Stryker," Sebastian clarifies. "He's my father. That's why I'm here."

He blinks and opens his mouth, but no words come out. Sebastian pushes past him and disappears down the hall while he stands welded to the floor. They're three simple words, _he's my father_, but they're endowed with the startling promise that Sebastian is now a puzzle he can solve.

.

He doesn't tell anyone, not even Sam. Sebastian's secrets aren't his to give away, even if he'd revealed them so callously.

At the end of the day they all have secrets they keep hidden from the world at large. But that world has turned so terrifyingly small that secrets have become proportionately similar, scars shared and a universal pain they all carry with them.

They've all been touched by the kaiju war in one way or the other. He lost his family, as did Sam. People like Artie and Tina, who'd lost distant relatives or friends, weren't less entitled to be here.

And yet for some inexplicable reason he'd believed Sebastian had been spared that.

Now, it seems, Sebastian's no different than him.

.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks in an unguarded moment, his eyes out of focus while his fingers trace indentations on a white page, words carved out in blue ink. It's a memory of his mother, three short paragraphs, where he held her hand at his grandfather's funeral. He hadn't cried because he'd never known his mother's dad that well, but his mom had been crying for a few days now and he didn't want to leave her side.

It's not a happy memory, but he'd been able to make his mom smile with nothing but a hug and his tiny fingers chasing the tears down her cheeks–and it's as much a mystery waiting to be solved as it is a comfort to him now.

Stryker lost his wife in a kaiju attack, that's common knowledge.

Sebastian lost _his mother_ in a kaiju attack. That's his secret. Their secret. And it's an unbelievably big burden to bear.

"Nothing," he answers and closes his journal, opens his arms for Sam to lie down in.

"You'll be a Ranger soon," Sam says absentmindedly, the pride in his voice is unmistakable.

He kisses Sam's hair. "I'll be a pilot soon," he corrects, but for once the thought doesn't get him as excited as it usually does.

Sam draws patterns on his skin with his finger, but the touch lost its soothing effect quite some time ago. "Who do you think you'll have to fight?"

"Nick, probably," he answers. "Maybe Hunter."

He doesn't mention that Sebastian's his most likely opponent. He can't even think about Drifting with Sebastian without his limbs growing heavy and his heart beating faster.

But he suspects that's not Sebastian's fault.

.

He doesn't run into Sebastian anymore at night.

Sebastian stops creeping up on him.

He tries at eye contact but Sebastian avoids it.

And it takes him several days to notice: Sebastian always hits the punching bags with closed fists. It's one of the missing pieces at the center of the puzzle, Sebastian closer to completion every day–because he knows that pain as his own, he understands it the way he does Sam's, he feels it for everyone who walks around with a dark uninhabitable hole in their hearts.

They're all broken.

Even Sebastian.

.

The night before the Kwoon matches he finds Sebastian in the gym again, seated cross-legged in the center of one of the mats they'll occupy tomorrow.

"Want one?" Sebastian holds up a beer, one of two, and he thinks maybe Sebastian expected him.

"No, thanks."

He keeps at a distance and Sebastian doesn't move, the silence ominous in the distance between them. He can't say he feels the same way about Sebastian, his opinion irrevocably changed once he found out about Stryker, new light shed on a previously darkened place dressed in shadow.

"I've been trying to figure out why you told me about your–" his voice disturbs the air but he can't take the not knowing, the incalculable mystery that still surrounds Sebastian. It's still a strange thing to think, _dad_, especially in connection to his superior officer, even if he's discerned the slight family resemblance by now.

"And?" Sebastian asks.

"I don't think you told me because you hoped I'd share something too."

Sebastian laughs. "Perish the thought."

"So why?" he asks, because there has to be a reason, there needs to be some explanation for why Sebastian confided in the one person that's never confided in anyone unless he was forced to.

Sebastian takes a sip from his beer and falls silent, tugging at the label where one of the corners has come loose.

"You don't like me," Sebastian confesses after minutes have passed, when the silence has already taken the trouble of crawling beneath the surface and he's decided that despite Stryker being here, Sebastian's as alone as he is. If not more.

"How's that relevant?" he answers, the wrong thing to say but it bursts out anyway. He wishes Sebastian had never told him, then this confusion wouldn't chase him down every chance it got.

But he gets it now, why Sebastian said it, why his question was answered while he couldn't do the same.

Sebastian knows they could be co-pilots soon.

And it's not Sebastian's fault. Half his dislike of Sebastian flows from that same realization.

He's terrified to let someone in.

Sebastian stands up and walks over. "I can talk to my dad if you want me to."

"No," he says, the thought of showing Stryker weakness even more terrifying. If he doesn't get this under control he'll never be a pilot. And he has no intention of forfeiting his destiny. "You were right." He crosses his arms over his chest, exposed under Sebastian's gaze. "I have a hard time letting people in."

"What about your boyfriend?"

He frowns. "Sam's not a pilot."

Sebastian smiles. "Not what I asked."

His eye twitches, Sebastian's observations as astute as his own. Whether or not they've found some common ground, it doesn't seem to stop Sebastian from getting under his skin. He turns around, heading back to a sleepless night filled with worry, but it's Sebastian's voice that stops him again.

Sebastian calls him by his first name for the first time, "I don't need you to like me, Blaine."

He stops in his tracks.

"Don't need you to sit with me at lunch or hold my hand. Don't need you in my bed."

He turns around, finds Sebastian's eyes without any effort.

"I need you to trust me," Sebastian says, and he catches a glimpse of a despair reminiscent of one he's felt himself, one he supposes they all feel. "If we ever step in a Jaeger together we'll become one mind, one body."

The thought cascades through him and settles in his fingertips. One mind. One body. A bond deeper than any imaginable.

"There's no point in doing that if you don't trust me," Sebastian adds.

.

He defeats Nick four points to one.

He takes Hunter four points to three.

Sebastian takes more out of him than Nick and Hunter combined–much as he anticipates Sebastian's moves it seems Sebastian reads him just as well, and the entire match becomes a dance, a dialogue between their two bodies, the way it was meant to be. The more equal the partners in a match, the better they'll Drift, the stronger the neural handshake.

And if he's being honest that's what he wants, a pilot he can trust, one who knows his moves before he makes them, reads his body as his own. He's worried about his mental state and anyone sneaking a peek inside, but if he wants to be a pilot he has to get over that. If Sebastian is the best candidate, who is he to object?

He and Sebastian surprise everyone when they both strike their fourth point at the same time, his hanbō to Sebastian's neck while Sebastian's taps dangerously close to his crotch, the one place he'd failed to guard in favor of striking the winning point.

Sebastian winks. "What was that about my concentration, killer?"

"Four points to four," Stryker says, but he can't take his eyes off Sebastian. "Very impressive."

.

"Sebastian?" Sam's eyes almost pop out of their sockets when he tells him the news, anger replacing discontent. He paces the room back and forth, eyes finding him every few seconds before he stops in the middle of the room. "No, Blaine. There's no way."

The words hit somewhere deep and he attempts to blink them away, unhear them but they echo in the caverns of a dream that was barely reachable, but here it is so close that he can almost taste it. And his boyfriend is saying no.

"I'm not asking for your permission."

"Blaine, you can't even talk to me about what happened to your family."

His body shudders a sigh, his fingers digging into his hips while Sam carelessly pokes at a wound that never heals, that no one could ever stop from bleeding and he _hates_ Sam for it. Up until a few minutes ago Sam was proud of all the things he'd accomplished and he needed that–he needed someone who pushed him to be better, get unstuck enough to enjoy the present once in a while.

But Sam's been trying to pry his heart loose at the same time.

"And now you're going to let Sebastian root around in your head?"

"I'm going to be a Jaeger pilot," he whispers, voice gone in a wisp of anger. "At what point have I ever confused you about that?"

And maybe Sam only objects to Sebastian, but he has his orders, the test was conclusive–Sebastian's his best and most equal match and that's what the best pilots have. Maybe they wouldn't be fighting if it was someone else, but he realizes there and then it can't be anyone else.

It has to be Sebastian.

"You'll get yourself killed," Sam cries, taking a step closer but he backs a step back. Because maybe this has been his suicide mission all along, evidenced by the way he clings to his past without considering his future, his nightmares transporting him to the place he should've lost his life but didn't. He knows he might not survive.

But that won't change with another co-pilot.

Sam sniffles. "Are you in love with him?"

"No," the answer comes instantly, accompanied by that ever-present guilt he tries to ignore. "It's not– It's not like that."

Sam nods, but refuses to look at him again and the guilt threatens to overtake him.

"Hey." He moves a few steps closer and pulls Sam closer. Sam buries his face in the crook of his neck and lets his tears flow freely, while he stands torn by one single thought.

_He's not in love with Sam either._

.

The driver suit consists of two layers; the circuitry suit is a fitted wetsuit covered with synaptic processors which connects their brains to the Jaeger, and a sealed outer armor shell with full life support. The outer armor locks to the Conn-Pod's Pilot Motion Rig at the spine, feet and wrists, in order to give them full motion control once the Drift is initiated.

He's intimidated right away, engineers flit around him and Sebastian to strap them into their suits and his heart races. This is it, all or nothing, the final test to see if he's really pilot material or doomed to live a life watching from the sidelines.

Sebastian remains silent throughout, so he suspects he's nervous too and he finds that oddly comforting. They step into the Conn-Pod together, located inside the Jaeger's head, but this one lacks any weaponry–he'll have to learn how to Drift with Sebastian before being allowed inside a giant mechanical robot with defensive capabilities.

He lifts his helmet but stops halfway, catching Sebastian's eyes across the rather spacious room. It's only the two of them in here and no one else. "Just tell me one thing," he says.

"One of those things killed my mother, Blaine," Sebastian answers before he gets the chance to ask. "I want to return the favor."

It's all the answer he needs. Sebastian had read him better than he'd given him credit for, he knew that confiding in him about his father would tip his negative opinion. It makes him wonder what else Sebastian had managed to ascertain without ever setting foot inside his head.

"Prepare for neural handshake," mission control informs over the intercom.

As soon as the countdown starts he fears his fate's been sealed; every memory he knows not to think about comes floating vividly in front of his eyes and the Drift will intensify that–his heart races as he tries to remember his classes: _don't chase the rabbit_, a term pilots used for Random Access Brain Impulse Triggers, which was a complicated way of saying to stay away from memories, to let them slide by as if they belonged to someone else. A pilot knows not to chase his memories into the Drift.

"One," the countdown ends and his consciousness is thrown into the past, _his hand tiny in his mother's at his grandfather's funeral_, _his brother holding up his Action Man so he can't reach_, _a scraped knee after he learned how to drive his bike_

Other memories assert themselves, not his, but Sebastian's, _a small boy with glasses and Superman PJs lifted in the air, a much younger Colonel Stryker, the first boy Sebastian ever kissed and the sting of heartbreak afterwards_

Their minds overlap and intermingle, _Sam smiles_, _Sam sneers_, _Cooper shouts_, _Adam leaves_, _Sebastian flirts with one boy after the other but rarely hooks up_

_He's kept on too tight a leash for that, Sam cries and his eyes beg to be held, he racks up quite a reputation just to spite his father, Kurt confesses his crush, Stryker slaps him once and never again but it leaves a sting in his cheek that lingers _

_Atta boy_

_Cooper?_

_Mommy?_

"Wow," is all the response he finds once they've rooted through the initial uplink, the present returns around him and he registers his surroundings again, strapped tight into the pod.

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Sebastian says, and that's exactly what he did–he can feel Sebastian's thoughts as if they're his own, their minds and bodies one.

He raises his left arm, or maybe it was Sebastian, either way they're perfectly in sync and on the display he can see the Jaeger raise its left arm as well. His left arm. _Their left arm_.

They run through a series of tests, scripted moves for them to make to see how far their bond extends and how well they can control it. But they perform without fail.

He's heard it before, pilot teams that existed without some previously construed connection. A lot of the current pilots were old army buddies, but more often than not the teams were father-son or husband-wife combination. The most popular ones were–

_Cooper?_

–brother-brother teams.

"Blaine?" Sebastian's voice sounds to his right.

_Blaine, give me your hand!_

"Don't chase the rabbit, Anderson," Sebastian warns, but he hears him add, "Blaine!" right away, _while he steps out of the Conn-Pod, his boots meet concrete_

_The ground_–_it doesn't just shake, it moves a good inch beneath his feet and he topples over_

_He's eleven years old when he learns that monsters are real_

_"Blaine, don't let go!" Cooper shouts as ashes start to rain down on them, his vision blurred and his eyes sting_

_There's a man in a helmet and a suit next to him, he speaks but he can't hear because_

_"Monsters aren't real," he cries, covers his ear to shut out the noise_

"Blaine," the man in the suit and helmet says, "It's a memory. Snap out of it."

_A woman screams. A man screams. Children start crying. _

_He loses hold of his brother's hand. "Cooper!" he shouts, but in its place there's now a gloved hand and there's a man in a helmet._

"Come back, Blaine," he hears in the vast distance of time and space.

He shocks forward in the harness, which catches him around the shoulders hard. "I'm okay," he breathes, the alarms in the pod slowly but surely dying out around them. "I'm good," he calls, "I've got it under control."

"Nice save, cadet," the voice over the intercom informs, but failure rips through him nonetheless. It took him a single thought to throw the neural link out of alignment, a single thought could've been the difference between life and death.

"Blaine?" Sebastian asks. "You okay?"

"Y-Yeah," he stutters, even though Sebastian can hear the resounding _no_ confirmed in their heads. At least he's kind enough not to say anything.

They finish their set of maneuvers and he keeps it together, more for Sebastian's benefit than his own–a team is only as strong as its individual units and he has no desire to ruin Sebastian's career too.

He waits for the engineers to get him out of the driver suit before he takes off, boots hard and heavy on the steel grating below him, his hands balled into fists to hold together for a few seconds longer–he slams the door to his bunk shut behind him and sinks to the floor, a sob nearly ripping him in half.

He cries to keep the scream lodged in his throat from coming out, his face cradled in his hands. He dreamed about how this would go, his first Drift, his first time controlling a Jaeger–it never resembled anything like this, despite it being his greatest fear. But he was driven and focused and had somehow kept his past in check. Until now, that same past back with a vengeance, Sebastian's past right alongside it.

There's a knock at the door, accompanied by a careful, "Blaine."

_Sebastian_.

"Leave me–" _alone_, he means to say, but Sebastian's the one who pulled him back, stopped him from destroying his future completely, a hand in his to replace Cooper's, a red thread to lead him out of the labyrinth. He releases a breath, lungs raw from crying. "I don't let people in."

Sebastian's voice sounds right behind the door, as if he stands pressed against it, attempting to push his way inside, "Thank you for letting me."

"Maybe your father was right," he despairs, left cold and empty on the floor. "I'm not strong enough."

"That's bullshit," Sebastian answers, his fist a muted thud to the door. "You're so close. You can't give up now, Blaine," Sebastian urges, and somehow it's more real now, because he's seen what scars Sebastian, what's real about him and what's not, how much he can trust his–_his co-pilot_.

They're co-pilots. Rangers. Jaeger pilots.

"The Drift was strong," Sebastian adds. "We'll make a great team."

He releases a breath, some of the pressure relieved at Sebastian's words. He needs someone to believe in him the way that Sebastian seems to, someone who'll encourage him to do better, to _be_ better, because that's what he's strived to do his entire life. He's never been content with the fate bestowed on him, that's why he wanted to be a pilot in the first place. He wants to fight the monsters, so they stop destroying the lives of eleven-year-old boys who fear the creatures under the bed.

He wipes at his face and scrambles up from the ground, composing himself before opening the door. Sebastian seems unfazed by what happened and there's no pity in his eyes; he guesses Sebastian knows that about him now.

He sniffles, "Thanks."

"First Drift's always the toughest." Sebastian shrugs. "Isn't that what they say?"

He averts his eyes, but nods.

Sebastian puts a hand on his shoulder, thumb running up and down his neck where it can reach, a simple and soothing touch. "Let me take you out for a drink," Sebastian's voice dips a few octaves lower, and he has the answer ready before he's thought it up.

But that's before Sam's voice travels down the hallway, "Blaine!" and Sebastian's hand falls away, accompanied by a respectful step back.

"Hey, how–" Sam hesitates for a moment but Sebastian doesn't meet his eye. "How did it go?" Sam asks.

Sebastian takes another few steps back before he turns around, his touch once again sunk into his skin.

.

_Daniel Smythe hits his son in a blank moment of sorrow and it stings_

_His hand_

_His cheek_

_He stands up to his bullies for the first time and he rewarded with a split lip_

_It stings_

_Blood tastes coppery in his mouth_

Their second and third Drift go off without a hitch, he sees his memories as if they're a slide show, intermixed with Sebastian's. He flexes his fingers, Sebastian's fingers, _their fingers_, and he can't tell where he ends, where Sebastian begins, or if that's even any distinction left to be made.

It's not something he could ever describe, there are no words other than _bond_ or _connection_ but they never seem deep enough, not encompassing all the sensations inside the Drift. Inside that Jaeger the world disappears; his pain, his stress, his worries, it all seeps out of him and everything turns silent.

And it's possible because of Sebastian.

.

He and Sam drift apart. Their fights grow numerous and they spent less and less time with each other. At lunch he sits with the pilots, the instructors, and hears the experienced ex-Rangers tell stories about their kaiju kills. At night he's never felt more exhausted, and he'll fall asleep before Sam finishes undressing.

Sebastian doesn't flirt with him as blatantly as he used to, the give and take during the Drift has taught them everything they need to know about each other–with Sam he could never find the right words, with Sebastian he doesn't need to. Sebastian knows. They become friends, and whatever part of him that was unable to connect to Sam does manage to connect with Sebastian.

They break up three weeks after his first Drift, and Sam cries and blames it all on Sebastian. The truth is harder to hear, that they've been lying to themselves from the start, he even brings up the word compromise. Sam thought they got each other, but understanding implies empathy, not sympathy. And he never did tell Sam about what happened to his family.

It's not how he thought it would be, he thought it would hurt more–instead there's more guilt that disappears after a few days, because holding on to something empty seemed far worse than what Sam could still potentially find.

He's not proud, not by a long shot, but they have no future together.

.

The first time he kisses Sebastian they both see it coming.

Six months have passed since he arrived on Kodiak Island and the most crucial part of his training has been completed–he's found his co-pilot, he's Drifted several times without getting lost in his past, and he's one of six other recruits who will join the Pan Pacific Defense Corps as a Jaeger pilot.

Colonel Stryker hands over their flight jackets in an unofficial ceremony, the PPDC emblem attached over the breast pocket and a patch at the right shoulder. The leather feels warm to the touch and the jacket's heavy, but it's a perfect fit around his shoulders, the wool collar still stiff.

They throw a party that attracts most of the officers too, and their superiors allow for one night of alcohol and music, on the condition they'll all be back at their posts in the morning.

He wanders towards the gym over the course of the night, reluctant to remove his jacket even though it's comfortably warm. But he made it, he's a pilot, tomorrow he and Sebastian will take a Jaeger out and log time on the test range and from there on it's a few weeks before they're deployed to one of the Shatterdomes scattered around the globe.

"Thought I might find you here."

He smiles, his back turned to Sebastian, but he quickly remedies that, Sebastian still dressed in his jacket too. He looks older, in a good way, more mature with the deep brown of the jacket thrown around his shoulders.

"Congratulations, killer," Sebastian says, the nickname so familiar he expects it. Sebastian closes the distance between them, smiling, "You have officially survived one thirty-sixth of what I have suffered with my father."

It's not entirely true, he's felt everything Sebastian has struggled through with his father, his mother's death, his father's inability to accept that, and the neglect Sebastian endured because of it. And the overwhelming expectations Stryker has of Sebastian.

But he makes it into a joke, "And the fun's only beginning," he says, because Sebastian prefers it that way.

Sebastian smiles, one reserved for him, earnest and big and boyish and unbelievably beautiful. "One can hope," he says.

The silences have ceased to be awkward or tense, rather they're welcome in between all the hustle of everyday life here.

"Bas," he starts and meets Sebastian's eyes. "I couldn't have done this without you."

Another kind of smile slides to the corners of Sebastian's mouth, one slower and with different intent, softer around the edges. "Likewise, killer," he says, green eyes trained on him and nothing else. "Likewise."

And when it happens it's not so much him giving in to Sebastian, as it is both of them giving in to the inevitable, the spark between them, the attraction that's been building steadily since long before they ever Drifted, a bond deeper than words or the physical–

–but he rises on his toes and Sebastian leans in and their lips crash together, Sebastian's hand hot around his neck while his grapple haphazard at Sebastian's waist.

Sebastian forces them back and pins him to the wall and in any other world they shouldn't have this down already, the coordinated push pull of their mouths moving together, Sebastian sucking at his lips exactly the way he likes it, slotting their hips together and the friction turns maddening, despair infused in their struggle to get to every inch of each other they can find.

He can't tell how much time passes, it doesn't really matter. All he knows is Sebastian's body pressed tight against his, his hands and lips and tongue, until a very drunk Hunter stumbles into the room with not one, but two junior scientists in tow, all of them giggling.

"Shit, sorry guys," Hunter mumbles, but his presence only slows their pace.

Sebastian's kiss turns deeper and he can feel his heart hammer like his own, his fingers now tugging at his curls.

He could do this forever, fall into Sebastian, kiss and touch and receive the same in return, moan into Sebastian's mouth because it's a turn-on for him, listen to the small content sigh at the back of Sebastian's throat as they ease out of the kiss.

"We should get back to the party," Sebastian's arms wind around his waist and pull him closer, planting a kiss just shy of his lips but he chases it–he wants Sebastian and he needs Sebastian, right now, because the world has turned into a living hell where everyone's constantly on guard and–

_What if they run out of time?_

"There's enough time, killer," Sebastian reads his mind. "I promise."

.

They steal moments where they can.

In the mornings Sebastian shows up at his door and he pulls him inside by his dog tags, door still halfway open when their lips find each other and they lose themselves in kisses that take their breath. Other doors opening down the hallway are their cue that they should break it up and make themselves look decent again, before they join everyone else for breakfast.

All the pilots spar with someone else than their partners, to keep things a challenge, and at night he and Sebastian settle in one of their rooms not just to steal moments, but to talk, about small and silly things, trace their fingers over each other's skin, outlining everything that blurs together during the Drift.

Every time they step into the Conn-Pod, before they put their helmets on and mission control isn't listening in yet, Sebastian pushes a single kiss to his lips.

Sebastian kisses him and the whole world falls away, he gets lost but feels found and when the Drift is initiated it's Sebastian who keeps him grounded.

It would be easy to get lost in the memories. But they don't.

.

The next kaiju attack hits Anchorage.

They watch the footage later on the news in Sebastian's room, the Becket brothers defending against a Category 3 kaiju in Gipsy Danger. But the monster gets the better of them and rips off one of the Jaeger's arms, claiming the older brother's life moments later.

He sits pressed against Sebastian's side, legs pulled up to his chest, a seven year old fear muddying his vision as his nightmares turn flesh on the screen.

Sebastian kisses his temple and pulls him closer. "Your brother should never have let you watch that movie," he says, an attempt at distraction rather than linger a moment longer on what they saw.

And when he laughs it's involuntary but invigorating. "Cooper was the worst babysitter ever."

It's the first time he talks about his brother in over seven years.

He knows it.

Sebastian knows it.

He no longer needs the journal to hold the memories close, to conjure up faces he thought would slip through his fingers over time–they're alive again in his mind, his mother's smile and even her tears, his father's stern looks and his brother's bright blue eyes.

They live in Sebastian too.

.

Not all wounds heal with time, at best they turn into scars, forever painful to the touch.

But he has scars now, unlike before.

.

"Anderson! Smythe!" a voice drones through the cafeteria at lunch, and almost everyone zeroes in on the source of the intrusion to find out what could warrant such commotion.

"Congratulations, Rangers, you're being transferred to Anchorage in the morning. Be packed and ready to leave at 0700 hours."

He's certain more than a few of the other pilots slap him on the back, as there are numerous people that run over to congratulate him, but he can only see Sebastian, across from him at the table, thinking the exact same thing he is.

_We've run out of time. _

All this time they've been waiting for their transfers like everyone else, waiting, biding their time while they faced the final days of training, knowing they'd most likely all go their separate ways for a while. Neither he or Sebastian thought they'd be the first.

They indulge their peers by showing their excitement but they can't get out of there fast enough, making the excuse that they have to pack and clear out their rooms, but really their time is up and they both realize it. After this the monsters will be real, there'll be no more simulators or test ranges, no, they'll go out on missions all over the world to protect it and they may well die doing so.

His room is closest and they storm inside, Sebastian closes the door by pressing him up against it, their jackets tumble to the floor and their dog tags clink together metallically, and somehow he still doesn't feel Sebastian close enough. He sucks Sebastian's tongue into his mouth and Sebastian moans, slipping a hand around his waist to grab at his ass.

Sebastian pulls him towards the bed where he lies him down on his back, both of them removing their gray army-issued tanks. And then Sebastian settles between his legs, his green eyes shine like he's the most precious thing they've ever beheld and he can't look away, there's only Sebastian, as it should be.

"Are you sure?" Sebastian asks as he hovers over him. "I mean, we are kind of taking the romance out of this."

"Let's just–" He can't help but touch Sebastian all over, his hands roam over flawless skin covered in freckles–they could well be constellations. "–slow down a little?"

Sebastian leans in and brushes his lips over his–he whimpers because he loves these little teases, knows that they're an absolute rush for Sebastian too, especially when he's verbal about them. His lips trace down, Sebastian's dog tags a cold lingering line down his abdomen, replaced by hot kisses and the graze of teeth.

Sebastian unbuckles his belt and pulls down his zipper, eases him out of his pants and boxer briefs, before digging through the bedside drawer for some lube; he spreads a generous amount on his fingers and kneels between his legs. Sebastian kisses his stomach, a hand tracing down his sides lovingly and soothing while the other reaches around for his ass.

A shiver runs up his spine at the first tentative touch, the pad of one of Sebastian's fingers circling around his hole and pushing inside. He gasps but then Sebastian's right where he wants him, right where he needs him, his mouth hot at his cock, lips closing around the head and sucking hard.

And he can't stop looking at Sebastian, the dark lustful eyes, conscious of his every desire, all his sweet spots, his likes and dislikes and they're in no way taking the romance out of this–this will always be perfect.

By the time Sebastian's spread him open with three fingers their mouths have slotted together again, and his hard-on rubbing up against Sebastian's without much of a rhythm.

"So beautiful, killer," Sebastian mutters, kissing him slow and deep as he plants both hands on either side of his head, leaving him open and empty and so incredibly needy. "You're so perfect."

"Sebastian," he whimpers, curling his legs high around Sebastian's waist. "Please," he begs, both hands on Sebastian's face. He licks inside Sebastian's mouth until he can feel his body melt down on top of him, loose and warm and heavy. "Please," he repeats, "Want you."

"Need you so bad," he croons, cock leaking and twitching and _it hurts_.

Sebastian pushes inside at a pace he knows he can take, burying himself balls deep inside his ass, "So perfect," he hushes and attacks his lips again, rolling his hips a few times without moving much.

He gasps. "What are you doing?"

Sebastian whispers, "Still taking my time with you, killer."

And that's exactly what he does. Sebastian sets a slow and shallow pace, tilting his hips rather than thrust in and out, kissing him and mindful of his every reaction, jerking him off in long lazy strokes to help relieve some of the pressure.

Their foreheads settle together and he gets lost in Sebastian's eyes–he's never felt closer to another person, there's nothing and nowhere to hide, everything he is, everything they are, _alive_.

There's no more room for words, he touches everywhere he can reach and then some, the need to push beyond the flesh overwhelming, he needs Sebastian body and soul, deeper and harder.

He never imagined he'd find something else to live for, but he thinks his love for Sebastian qualifies.

.

The Anchorage Shatterdome is one of eight scattered all along the Pacific Rim, each of them capable of deploying Jaegers all over the world. They share a room, as all Jaeger teams do, something they readily make use of every chance they get.

"You think this counts as abusing our pilot status?" Sebastian asks, tongue a line from his shoulders down, a hot searing kiss at the small of his back, before his lips move further down, his ass slick with spit already.

"I think–_ahh_," he writhes on the bed and his back arches as Sebastian licks at his hole. "I think we're not–" he tries to stifle a moan but fails, a rampant shudder making him even harder, "–not the only team that's a couple too."

Sebastian pulls back. "Why do you think that is?"

He sags down into the mattress, hips stuttering against the sheets of their own volition. "I don't know," he huffs, feeling woefully neglected, even though Sebastian's company would be enough. "Maybe it's the only way for some people to connect."

And when he says _some_ _people_ he means people closed off by trauma, people like him, but he likes that he doesn't have to spell that out for Sebastian. The truth is that he and Sam would still have parted ways even if his co-pilot had been someone else, but he probably wouldn't have ended up with Sebastian–no, that relationship would've become a could-have-been the moment they transferred to different Shatterdomes.

He would've wandered around incomplete and lost, because no other pilot could give him what Sebastian has.

A future.

.

It takes five and a half months.

The alarms go off at three in the morning, Sebastian startles awake and even though he hasn't been able to catch sleep the alarm still makes him jump.

"What's going on?" Sebastian mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Next come a few hard knocks at the door, "Up and at 'em, rookies!" one of the watch commanders shouts, "You're joining Striker and Crimson in Manila!"

"_Kaiju attack_," he breathes, and unconsciously reaches for Sebastian's hand.

They jump out of bed and get dressed as fast as they can, barely looking at each other as they do–his mouth's gone dry and the air's grown thinner, but he can get prepped blindly if he has to.

Sebastian's quiet too, neither of them have ever been this nervous, but they try not to show it. They get suited up and enter the Conn-Pod, alone the rest of the way.

"Are you scared?" he asks, breathing easier now that he's in the driver suit, in the pod, a place he knows so well.

Sebastian pulls him close and kisses his forehead. "Don't be," he hushes, an answer to something he leaves unspoken, but he should have figured out by now he has nothing left to hide from Sebastian. "There's three of us, and one of them," Sebastian looks down into his eyes, one hand curled tight around his neck. "We've got this."

But he's not afraid of the threat, he's not even afraid of losing, he's afraid than when they touch ground and are faced with a monster he'll freeze, that he'll turn into that eleven-year-old who pretended not to believe in monsters until he was faced with one. Monsters cost him everything.

"I love you," Sebastian says, pulls him back to the here and now, keeps him grounded in a world constantly shifting foundations.

He drawn in a deep breath and nods. "I love you too."

It's the first time either of them says it but when their lips meet in that by now all too familiar kiss its endowed with a bittersweet goodbye, while for the first time he allows himself hope, hope that they might make it through this, that they might have a future beyond this damn war.

They make it through.

There's three Jaegers and one monster and he doesn't freeze. He wasn't trained to freeze, he was trained to look danger right in the eye and destroy the threat before it reached any populated area, to stop it from ripping families apart like his was. That little boy alone in the streets of San Francisco was lost, separated from those he loved, crippled by fear and chaos. He's not alone now, he never will be, and he's bigger and better. He can fight the monster.

And when he and Sebastian strike the lethal blow their thoughts coalesce–

_For my family_

The kaiju goes down in the water, its radar signal dies, and all three Jaegers are still left standing, though not unscathed.

Their left arm's pretty wrecked, and he throws up in the Conn-Pod the moment he removes his helmet, head reeling where it took a pretty heavy beating. He has a concussion and Sebastian receives some stitches above his left eye, but all in all their first mission was a success. Some of the engineering crew makes sure their jackets get adorned with a chalky white kaiju skull at the back, as is tradition, while he wakes up in the infirmary, Sebastian holding his hand.

"Okay there, killer?"

He smiles. "Five by five."

.

Monsters are real. They're not fiction and don't exist solely in his imagination.

But monsters can be defeated.

.

He wakes up in a cold sweat and sits up in bed, reaching for something long gone, long since lost, but never forgotten.

Only now there's a hand to replace the one he once let go. "It's just a dream," Sebastian mutters, his lips at his temple, fingertips down his back. "Come here," Sebastian beckons softly, foregoing sleep to hold him together.

He starts shaking, but lies down in Sebastian's arms.

"Hey, it's okay," Sebastian says, stroking a hand through his hair over and over again. "I've got you."

"I know," he whispers and closes his eyes, his right hand over Sebastian's heart, the beat of it a rhythm that calms him down.

Sebastian repeats it until he's breathing normally again, "I've got you," over and over again, a promise that he's not only there, not only extending that hand once lost, not simply mindful of the burden he's carried since he was eleven years old–

No, what Sebastian's saying is really quite simple.

_I carry it with you_.

* * *

#

**if you can, please let me know what you think!**


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